Leap of the Lion (The Wild Hunt Legacy #4)(18)

“Now.”

His eyes were still black, and a shiver ran up her spine. No, no, no. Yet, denying him was impossible. Her gaze lifted to the other men.

Standing near her, Gawain looked surprised.

Owen sat farther down the bench, injured leg extended, swollen wrist in his lap. His harsh expression matched that of the Cosantir’s. “Do it. Now. Find the door.”

Her hands closed into fists, but she mentally turned. She frowned. The door had closed again, darkened, and somehow moved away from her. So far away. As she headed for it, her energy drained away like water.

Finally, she reached the door. Her hands flattened on the ancient, scarred wood, but this time when she shoved, the door opened with a rasping creak into brightness.

As she stepped through, a wave of…of love ran from her paws into her whole body. It was as if her mother had returned and enfolded her in a hug. She realized she was lying on the floor in panther shape—and purring.

“Thanks be to the Mother,” the Cosantir murmured. “Excellent. My assistance didn’t break the connection. Trawsfur back, and you can stay human.”

With a sense of relief, Darcy turned in her mind. The door was there, plain as could be, and she stepped through.

“Very good.” The Cosantir sat back on the bench.

To her surprise, Owen’s brother came over with a soft blanket. “Come, let’s get you warm.” Wrapping it around her, he helped her stand.

Her leg gave out immediately—and she realized she really didn’t feel well at all. His arm around her waist was the only thing holding her up.

“Easy, pretty panther.” Gawain’s voice was a composed rumble. He scooped her into his arms.

After a second of jarring pain, she relaxed, feeling the iron bands of his arms beneath her shoulders and knees. His chest was immense and hard—and he carried her as if she weighed nothing.

He smelled of musky male and the compelling wildness of a shifter with a curious iron tang. She wanted to bury her face against his chest and sniff.

“On the table, please,” the healer said.

The counter-high table was a heavy, dark wood. Not metal—it wasn’t metal. Yet the size and height matched a Scythe laboratory table. Her stomach twisted, and she clutched Gawain’s shirt. “No. No, please, don’t strap me down.”

His blue eyes darkened with his frown. He looked at the table. “Aren’t any straps, catling.”

No straps? She took a breath and looked. With an effort, she unclamped her fingers from his shirt. “I… Sorry.”

Very gently, Gawain set her on the table, then touched her cheek and moved away, leaving her with a sense of abandonment.

“Little female.” The Cosantir walked up to the table. His eyes were now gray, not black. “I’m Calum and Cosantir of this territory. Can you give me your name?”

Her name. She had to push through the remnants of terror to remember it. “Darcy. Darcy MacCormac.” Hauling in a fortifying breath, she recalled the manners her mother had tried to teach her. “Ah, it’s good to meet you.”

His lips curved up slightly. “Darcy, can—”

A throat was cleared.

The Cosantir glanced over his shoulder, and his lips twitched. “Yes, Donal. I do recall. Healing before answers.” His gaze returned to her. “I’ll return in a while.”

“Yes, Cosantir.”

Calum turned. “Cahir, let’s talk in the other room.”

Owen pushed to his feet.

No! He was the only person she knew, although, she didn’t…really…know him. But he’d fought for her. Saved her. She clenched her hands to keep from calling him back.

Owen glanced at her and stopped, studying her more slowly. “Gawain.” The one word was low.

“Aye.” Gawain moved forward from his place against the wall. “I’ll watch over her, brawd.”

Donal snorted. “I wasn’t planning to slaughter her, cahir.”

Ignoring the healer, Owen met her eyes again. After a long moment, he nodded at her and left.

Loss swept through her, and she made a noise that sounded far too much like a whimper.

“Shhh. You’re going to be fine.” Owen’s brother put an arm around her waist, bracing her against his hard, warm body.

“Another female, half-starved, dehydrated, and injured.” Donal stood in front of her. “This is growing familiar. I hear the males found you in Seattle?”

She tried to answer, but her voice had dried up. Now she was in human form, and the pain was increasing, taking over her world.

“That’s what Owen said,” Gawain answered.

“That benighted city.” Donal made a disgusted harrumph. “Don’t you know better, girl? Cities drain your magic faster than you can devour a mouse.” He pulled the blanket off her right side, studied the bullet’s furrow over her ribs and the gouge in her arm she’d made to remove the tracker. Then he checked her right thigh and the bullet wound in her calf. The lines in his face grew deeper. “Whoever shot you got you good.”

The healer’s eyes shone startling silver in his tanned face. “Have you ever been healed before?”

“I’ve never even met a healer.”

His chuckle was smooth. “I hope you’re properly honored. Now, there is good and bad news. The good: I can heal your injuries. The bad: because it’s been so long since you were hurt, you’ll have scars. And…” His mouth tightened.